


Anything

by breakinthesun



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise, And They Love Him Back, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Richie Bill Stan & Eddie in Peril, Richie Whump, Richie just really loves his friends, Self-Indulgent, feat Bev Ben & Mike to the Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 10:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakinthesun/pseuds/breakinthesun
Summary: “Tell me,” Henry says, “what’re you willing to do for him? For them?”“Anything,” Richie says. “I’ll do anything.” They might be some of the truest words he’s ever spoken.AKA: The one where the Bowers Gang corners Bill, Stan, Richie, and Eddie. But it's ok, because Richie has a plan. He just never said it was a very good one.





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I have no excuse for this self-indulgent mess except to say this is my first fic in years, so it only makes sense that I use it to torture my favorite Trashmouth...
> 
> Anyway, this is slightly AU, where Pennywise didn't happen and the Losers all stay in Derry through high school. It's mostly inspired by the new movie, but some book elements probably wiggled their way in there too.
> 
> Enjoy!

When the first Saturday of fall—of  _real_  fall with the leaves finally changing and the beautifully cool weather and crisp air—rolls into Derry, the Losers immediately plan to celebrate with a trip to the Barrens. Even at 17, when beer has joined the cigarettes and dam-building has been replaced with existential crises about the future, it's still their go-to place. The little patch of woods is beautiful this time of year, all yellows and oranges and reds, and while the water is too cool to swim in, it's still pleasant enough for sticking feet into (and decidedly less pleasant for splashing in people’s faces, not that it deters Richie in the slightest).

Richie takes to fall like a fish to water, the Hawaiian shirts replaced with long-sleeved flannels that can stay unbuttoned for another couple of weeks before the cold really hits. His shirt flaps behind him like a tattered cape as he bikes alongside Bill, Stan, and Eddie. He wishes Mike, Bev, and Ben were there too—he loves the way the seven of them look when they all bike together, like a ridiculous little gang off on a crazy adventure—but the other three Losers all had errands to run, and had promised to meet them at the Barrens when they were done.

Daring to close his eyes for a few seconds, Richie pauses in his peddling and lets himself coast so he can feel the breeze ruffle his curls. His old radio, covered in scratches and held together with messily-applied tape, bounces against his hip and Richie thinks that this is what bliss really feels like.

Then Eddie's screaming, "What are you  _doing_?" and Richie's eyes fly open just in time to straighten out his bike and narrowly miss side-scraping the smaller boy.

“Just havin’ some good chucks, Eds,” Richie says, grinning at Eddie's expression.

“Well have them over there, away from me!” Eddie says.

Richie can practically feel Stan rolling his eyes so, naturally, he has to shoot back, “That’s not what—”

“If you say ‘that’s not what your mom said last night’ I’m going to fucking kill you, Richie,” Eddie says.

“Eds! Look at that, great minds thinking alike! But, you know, maybe that’s what your mom  _did_ say last night. She  _does_  like to watch.”

“ _Predictable._ You’re like a broken record, you know that? You’re not even funny, just intrusive. And rude!”

“We’ve been over this, Eddie,” Stan deadpans. “He’s compensating for his small dick.”

“Stan the Man!” Richie cries, delighted. “Getting off—”

“A good one,” Stan finishes for him.

“Broken record,” Eddie says.

“I’m feeling so attacked right now,” Richie says, but his chest is warm.

They reach their favorite path to the Barrens, Stan neatly propping his bike up while Richie and the others let theirs crash to the ground. High on the anticipation of sitting back and spending the afternoon playing some rock n' roll, smoking with Bev, and cracking more lewd jokes at Eddie, Richie doesn't notice they have company until Henry Bowers says, “Well lookie what we have here.”

The older boy emerges from the trees at the side of the road, Vic, Belch, and Patrick in tow. What they're doing at the Barrens, Richie can only guess—the older teens can usually be found rolling around town in Belch's car—but he can't really be surprised. The bullies of Derry have always had an unusually high success rate when it comes to finding their prey. And that's what he feels like right now, as the Bowers gang closes in.

“Wh-what do you want, B-Buh-Bowers?” Bill asks, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. Though still a few inches shorter than Henry, Bill still strikes an imposing figure. Richie straightens his back as well. While he's lanky as all hell, he's just about Henry's height and it wouldn't hurt to remind him of that.

“Wuh-wuh-what does it matter, Buh-Buh-Buh-Billy?” Henry sneers.

Richie should really let Bill handle this. Or Stan, or even Eddie. They're better at these situations—calmer, more placating, willing to deal with the verbal bullshit as long as things don't come to blows. Richie has a nasty habit of being the exact opposite so he keeps his jaw clenched tight, hoping against hope that maybe he can keep the damn words back.

“Off to have one of your sick little orgies?” Belch asks, stepping closer. Broad and beefy, he towers over all of them and Richie can easily imagine him snapping his spine with a quick twist of his hands.

“What I’ve always wondered,” Vic says, “Is, do you all dick each other, or just take turns using that red-headed slut?”

_Oh_  Richie hates them. The words bubble up in his throat, but he pauses when Bill steps into Henry's personal space and says, icy but calm, “Just let us through.”

Henry's face twists into a brief smile before there's a loud  _crack_  as he punches Bill right in the jaw. Richie shouts, throwing himself forward but is blocked by Belch, who pushes him back again easily with those tree-trunk arms. Richie goes low, throwing his body into Belch's stomach but it's like hitting a brick wall and Belch easily winds him with a well-placed knee to the solar plexus.

Richie's vaguely aware of Stan and Eddie joining the fray as he fights to catch his breath, lashing out at any part of Belch that he can reach. It's like grappling with the Thing—seriously, what does this boy  _eat?_ —and Richie's pretty sure Belch's face is doing more damage than Richie's fists, but he keeps swinging. His friends are struggling and that's not about to slide.

He gets in a good one, socking Belch right in the eye, and uses the teen's momentarily stunned state to step out of range. Richie may be built like a fucking bird, but he's  _fast_ , and he uses that to his advantage as he dances in and out, ducking between Belch's fists and landing sharp jabs himself.

To his right, Bill lands a blow to Patrick’s temple with a satisfying _thwack_ and to his left, Stan and Vic hit the ground, rolling, kicking, and scratching viciously.

Then Richie gets a glimpse of Henry punching Eddie in the gut, dropping the shorter boy to the street. Eddie wheezes as Henry kicks him right in the ribs. Again. And again.

“Stop!” Richie screams, struggling against Belch but caught fast by the painful grip the other boy has on his arm. “ _Stop it!_ ”

Stan and Bill struggle too, the collective, unspoken agreement that someone needs to get to Eddie. _Now_. And it’s just the distraction that Henry’s goons need to get the upper hand. Patrick hits Bill in the chin, knocking him to the street where he spits out a mouthful of blood. Patrick’s on him in an instant, shoving his face into the asphalt and pinning him in place.

Vic has a hand cruelly tangled in Stan’s hair, and no matter how furiously Stan kicks and scratches at him, his grip doesn’t slip, only tightens as Vic wrenches Stan’s head back and gets an arm around his throat.

Eddie’s breath hitches unnaturally, too shallow, too fast, a combination of his phantom asthma and the beating, and that’s when Richie breaks.

“Bowers,” he screams, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Unless you really wanna be a good, little daddy’s boy!”

That makes Henry pause. Good. At Henry’s feet, Eddie chokes on air and there go Richie’s words again, tumbling out like they always do, before they’ve even really formed in his mind. “Bet he’d be so proud, seeing you picking on someone smaller than you. Just like he does. Doesn’t he, asshole?” Belch’s grip on his arm tightens and his nails dig into Richie’s skin as he _twists._ But even through the pain, Richie spits out the words. They come so fast, so frantically, that he doesn’t even realize that he’s slipped into the Irish Cop Voice. “Why don’t ye invite him over next time, boyo? Have some nice father an’ son bonding?”

“Shut up,” Henry snaps.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Too scared he’d show ya up? That dear ol’ dad would put ya right to shame?” Henry’s lip curls into a snarl. Richie pushes on, fueled by anger and the false sense of comfort that comes from hiding behind a Voice, that disconnected feeling of speaking through someone else. “Or is it that yer too scared he wouldn’t even be arsed shown’ up? ‘Cause he knows exactly what ye are. A fucking failure, and a disappointment. Which is it?”

Henry marches over and pushes Belch away right before he sends Richie’s world spinning with his fist. Richie’s glasses fly from his face and clatter to the ground with the faint sound of splintering glass. Richie has just enough time to dazedly mourn them before Henry grabs the front of his shirt and gets in his face, close enough that Richie can see the rage in his eyes with perfect clarity.

“Belch,” Henry snaps, and Belch moves to obey the unspoken command, fading out of Richie’s vision to go stand over Eddie, whose pained breathing still reaches Richie’s ears even though he’s nothing but a blur in the distance now.

“You think you’re hot shit, Tozier?” Henry sneers, flashing teeth and looking like a wild animal.

Richie’s about to tell him that, why yes he does think he’s hot shit, thank you very much, hotter shit than his mother will ever know, but then Belch does something that makes Eddie scream and any bravado that Richie had left in his body seeps out instantly.

“Stop!” Richie shouts, “Leave him alone! _Please!_ ”

_Please, please, please, he can’t breathe right, please let him go, leave him alone, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t_ breathe

Henry holds up a hand and Belch stops whatever it is he’s doing. He leans closer and Richie doesn’t like the look in his eyes. “You begging, Four Eyes?”

“Yes,” Richie says, before he can even think about feeling shame. Pissing Henry off had succeeded in getting his attention, but Richie’s playing with fire now, and the last thing he wants is any of his friends to get burned. So if begging is what Henry wants, Richie will beg like a dog. He’ll get down on his knees, kiss Henry’s shoes, offer up his beating heart on a platter. Everything in his body screams _protect protect protect_ with such force and clarity that it’s impossible to think of anything else.

 “I’m begging,” he says and something wicked crosses Henry’s face.

“Richie!” Bill cries, thrashing in Patrick’s grip.

“Henry, c’mon,” Patrick says, immobilizing Bill easily by grabbing his hair and slamming his head down into the street. Stan cries out in protest but is quickly silenced by Vic.

Henry ignores them all, his eyes not leaving Richie’s. “Tell me,” he says, “what’re you willing to do for him? For them?”

“Anything,” Richie says. “I’ll do anything.” They might be some of the truest words he’s ever spoken.

Henry grins, too wide and too full of teeth. “Ok then,” he says. “Belch, Vic, Patrick, get them up. They’re not gonna wanna miss this.” To Richie, Henry says, “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Bucky Beaver. I am going to destroy you. I am going take you apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but those unsightly chompers, and if you’re real good, I’ll _consider_ not feeding them to those little friends of yours. And if you even _think_ about fighting back, your friends will pay for it.”

“I have one condition,” Richie says and Henry laughs.

“You think you’re in any position to make _requests_?” Henry asks, grabbing Richie’s hair and pulling his head back. A year or so ago, when Henry still towered over Richie, it would have been more effective. With Richie nearly the same height as Henry now, the position feels awkward. Oddly enough, it’s almost comforting that this person who haunted Richie’s childhood, who always seemed larger than life, is starting to lose that foothold. Maybe someday they won’t have to be afraid of him anymore. Even if today is not that day.

“When you’re done with me, you let them go,” Richie says.

Henry sneers, “We’ll see about that.”

It’s not a promise, but Richie has a plan **.** Not a great one by any stretch. Of the Losers Club, plans were decidedly Not Richie’s Strong Suit. But it’s a plan nonetheless.

There are still three Losers unaccounted for—Ben, Bev, and Mike. And they would be coming. If Richie can hold out long enough for even one of them to show up, they’d have the upper hand, at least with numbers. If Richie can just hold out long enough, maybe Bill, Stan, and Eddie can get out of this unscathed (or, only as scathed as they are now. Less than they could be, at least.).

Patrick drags Bill to his feet and loops an arm around his neck, pulling him tightly against his chest. The blur of Bill’s face is tinted red and Richie knows it’s likely smeared with blood and grit from the street. Though he squirms slightly, Bill seems too dazed to break Patrick’s grip. Vic brings Stan closer, hand still locked tightly in his curls. Eddie slumps against Belch as the much larger teen pulls him up. Eddie’s breathing is still off and Richie’s scared he’s going to pass out. Is a little impressed that he hasn’t yet.

“E-Eddie,” Bill says. “D-Deep breaths, ok? Luh-like me.” Bill takes a handful of long, deep breaths. “S-S-See?”

Eddie whimpers but by god he tries, his chest stuttering as he fights to take in air. Bill keeps breathing slowly, loudly, and Stan joins in, murmuring soft words of encouragement even though his own voice is hoarse from Vic’s rough treatment. While Eddie is still far from calm, Richie thinks it’s helping, and he’s so grateful to Stan and Bill in that moment that he could kiss them.

Pleased with his audience now, Henry lets go of Richie’s hair and punches him right in the stomach.

Richie doubles over, the air whooshing out of his lungs and leaving him gasping. He doesn’t have time to get it back before Henry punches him in the side of the head. Richie teeters over clumsily, not going down fully but ripping the skin of his palms as he steadies himself against the street.

Henry kicks him in the ribs, throwing Richie on his back. And then Henry is on him, fists coming in a sick blur as pain explodes across Richie’s face. He tastes blood and can’t tell if it’s from his nose or mouth and there’s so much of it that he feels like he’s choking on it.

Every instinct in his body screams at him to fight back, to punch and kick and scratch and bite. But he thinks of Bill and Stan and Eddie

(Oh god, Eddie)

and can do nothing but lie there and take it. He can vaguely hear someone screaming his name and thinks it’s probably Bill. Big Bill. Responsible Bill. It’s probably killing him to watch this and Richie regrets that. But he can’t regret doing this, not when they’re in danger.

_How long will it take?_ Richie wonders, as Henry pulls him up by his shirt before slamming him back down. Black spots explode in Richie’s eyes as the back of his head hits the ground. _How long will it take for the others to get here?_

He honestly doesn’t know. They shouldn’t take too long, they really shouldn’t, but with the pain wracking his body, Riche’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold out.

The punches suddenly stop coming as Henry moves off of Richie’s stomach and gets to his feet. Richie wheezes, his face and chest on fire. Blood from his busted nose drips down into his mouth where it mixes with the blood welling from his lips, and he has to spit it out before he chokes on it.

“Get up,” Henry says, shaking out his fists and grinning like a monster finally set free from its cage. “Get up,” he repeats when Richie doesn’t move. “Don’t make me make you regret it.”

Richie slowly, painfully, gets to his feet. The entire world spins and his legs buckle, sending him back to his knees. Henry’s there in an instant, one hand squeezing Richie’s broken nose. “I said _get up_.”

Richie howls as Henry jerks his nose up. He grabs onto Henry’s arm and shamelessly uses it to balance himself as he struggles to stand. Henry jerks away from his touch but Richie manages to keep his feet this time.

One of his friends is sobbing but Richie can’t tell who without his glasses. What he can see, though, is Henry circling him like a vulture. The longer he waits, the more nervous Richie becomes.

_He’s going to kill you_ , something in the back of his mind whispers.

Henry keeps circling and Richie’s entire body tenses, waiting for him to pounce, to continue the beating, to do _something._ But the fear doesn’t really set in until Henry pulls a knife.

Richie can clearly hear Bill screaming “ _No!_ ” now, while Stan shouts, “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

Even Belch seems a bit put off by the sight of the weapon, calling out, “Henry, c’mon man.”

“Shut up,” Henry says, and there’s not another peep from Belch’s direction.

That is, until Richie hears Eddie’s voice calling his name, hoarse and fainter than Stan and Bill’s, but audible. Which gives Richie hope. Eddie’s talking, which means he’s breathing ok now. And in this moment, it’s worth it, _it’s all worth it_.

Henry comes up behind Richie, one arm around his neck, the other hand bringing the knife up to trace Richie’s cheek. Richie understands then that Henry wants his friends to see everything, to see every move that knife makes, and the terror is even more paralyzing than Henry’s grip on his throat. The blade is cold and hard against Richie’s burning skin and waiting for Henry to make that first cut is torture.

_(Going to kill you going to kill you going to kill you_ )

Henry nicks his cheek, just a quick flick of the wrist that easily opens Richie’s bruised skin. Then the knife drops down to Richie’s stomach, where it pauses for a moment, the tip resting right above Richie’s bellybutton and Richie has a brief vision of his intestines spilling out onto the pavement, before Henry drags the knife up towards his chest. Even with his clothes there, Richie knows it’ll only take the smallest amount of pressure to draw blood.

Henry brings the blade up to his collarbone, where he pauses again. His breath hitches and that’s the only warning Richie gets before the steel bites, drawing a long, deep gash through his skin.

He screams, the pain sharp, and that only seems to spur Henry on. He digs deeper and Richie swears he can feel steel against bone. He jerks against Henry’s chest, unable to stop himself. His hands fly up to grab Henry’s wrist, but the movement jars Henry’s hand and he only draws more blood as the knife draws dangerously close to the hollow of Richie’s throat.

“ _Stop it!_ ” Stan screams, “Stop it, you’ll kill him!”

Henry drops the knife with a shout and Richie barely has time to feel confused before the other boy is forcefully wrenched away from him. Richie stumbles forward, sure that he’s going to fall without the support, but then a pair of arms grab him, warm and careful, nothing like Henry’s. He looks up and sees Ben, eyes wide and face pale but looking like a goddamn knight in shining armor.

Ben carefully lowers them both to the ground, bringing Richie’s back against his chest and shrugging off his jacket, which he balls up and presses firmly against Richie’s bleeding collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Ben says, and Richie lets himself sink back and breathe.

Henry howls and Richie turns just in time to see Mike punch him right off his feet.

“Cut that out!” Vic shouts, yanking at Stan’s hair and causing him to yelp. Something (a rock? A very large, very angry bee? Richie can’t be sure.) comes flying out of nowhere, hitting Vic square between the eyes. He shrieks and lets go, and Stan takes the opportunity to turn and punch him right in the throat. Vic falls to his knees, choking. Stan—responsible, quiet, stick-in-the-mud Stan—doesn’t even hesitate before knocking him flat with a cruel kick to his face.

With a triumphant shout, Beverly appears. She’s cradling a pile of rocks against her stomach, using her shirt as a pouch, and Richie can only watch in awe as she rockets one right at Patrick, nicking him in the ear with enough force to draw blood.

Patrick flinches, letting go of Bill and snarling, “You fucking bitch! I’ll—” but he doesn’t get the rest of his words out before Bill uses his newfound freedom to punch him right in the nose.

“Fuck this shit,” Belch says, letting go of Eddie.

It’s a mistake he immediately comes to regret as Eddie whips around and kicks him right in the crotch, stunning both the bully and the rest of the Losers, and making Belch double over with a shriek.

“How does that feel, fuckface?!” Eddie shouts, voice cracking but no less earnest. Belch’s face turns purple with rage, but then a rock catches him in the mouth and he screams, covering his bleeding jaw and stumbling back. He turns, hunched over as if expecting more of Bev’s missiles, and scrambles away into the trees.

“You might wanna follow your friend,” Mike snarls at Henry, whose face is a blurry patchwork of blood to Richie now.

“Yeah, get the fuck outta here!” Beverly shouts, grabbing another rock from her stash. It’s enough to send Patrick and Vic running. Richie imagines them like dogs, slinking off with their tails tucked between their legs. The thought almost makes him giggle.

Henry spits at Mike before taking one last look at Richie. His face is an indistinct shape—like looking at a stranger on the street through a rain-splattered car window—but Richie understands what that gaze says with perfect clarity.

_Next time, you’re dead_.

And then Henry’s gone too.

“ _Richie!_ ” Bill shouts, running over with the rest of the Losers following right on his heels. Bill, Stan, and Eddie are messes of blood and dirt but they’re the most beautiful things Richie has ever seen.

Eddie pushes through and grabs Richie by the face, gently lifting his chin so he can get a better look. “Why would you do that?” Eddie asks. “What the fuck were you thinking? _Look_ at you, you fucking mess!”

Richie doesn’t answer, just lets Eddie poke and prod and tries hard not to wince under his touch. “Your face looks like _roadkill_ ,” Eddie rants. “Your nose is definitely broken, and for fuck’s sake where are you glasses because I’m sure _those_ are broken too. _Again_. Can you even _hear_ me? You stupid, fucking, piece of—” Eddie breaks off for a moment and his breathing is strained again, setting off alarm bells in Richie’s head. Then Eddie launches in again, seemingly unbothered by the hitching in his chest. “Your _shoulder_ ,” he gasps. “That’s so much blood. Too much blood. Ben, let me see. _Let me see_.”

Richie hisses as Ben’s grip shifts and air hits the wound. Eddie whimpers at the sight alone, suddenly looking faint. “That,” he says, gesturing to it with a shaking hand, “ _That_ is a mess. _You_ are a mess. _This is all such a fucking mess, Richie_.”

Richie wants to say something, to make some sort of joke to take that edge of panic out of Eddie’s voice. But for once the words are hard to find and all he can manage is a simple, “Are you ok, Eds?” He has to ask, even as the entire world spins and he struggles to keep his eyes open.

Eddie freezes. “I’m ok,” he says after a beat, looking ready to punch him. “You _asshole_. _I’m_ ok.”

“Stan? Bill?”

“They’re ok too.”

“You’re all ok,” Richie breathes, slightly awed by it. He can’t believe this worked, that his friends are ok. A little worse for wear, but _ok_. His vision darkens suddenly, consciousness beginning to slip away.

“But _you’re_ not. _You’re_ _not_ ,” Eddie says, and then he breaks, letting out a sob and wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck.

It’s awkward and uncomfortable. Eddie’s pushing Richie back into Ben and his weight presses Ben’s hand harder against the gash on Richie’s chest, which makes the pain spike horribly, but Richie doesn’t even think to protest. Eddie’s there, he’s _safe_. And he’s hugging him even though Richie’s covered in blood.

“I can’t believe you,” Eddie says, voice slightly muffled against Richie’s good shoulder. “Of all the stupid things you’ve done—”

Eddie’s voice fades out and everything goes kind of quiet and dark for a moment before something touches his face and his eyes fly back open.

“Richie?!” It’s Mike leaning over him now, shaking him slightly. Eddie’s gone and Richie suddenly feels very cold. “Richie you have to stay awake, ok? Can you do that?”

Richie opens his mouth but can’t manage more than a croak. He’s feeling faint now, his head too light

(like it’s floating)

and body too heavy. Ben moves his hand and Richie vaguely feels fresh blood leak down his chest. His friends’ voices only come in snippets now, running together and hard to distinguish whose is whose.

“…bleeding…call…”

“…hospital…now…help.”

“Richie? Richie…at me.”

“Richie _please!_ ”

“ _Richie!_ ”

Richie lets his eyes close.

\-------

When he opens them again, he really wishes he hadn’t. The lights are painfully bright, and the white walls and ceiling are definitely not helping.

“Richie?” It’s Eddie’s voice beside him and Richie wants to look at him, but the pain in his head is terrible and he thinks he might vomit if he tries. “Richie, are you awake?”

Richie can answer that at least, which he does, very eloquently, with a grunt.

“Mike, the lights,” someone—Stan?—says and the room behind his eyelids seems to darken.

“It’s ok now,” Eddie says and Richie believes him.

He opens his eyes slowly and even though his head is still spinning, he doesn’t suffer from a florescent-induced death. Eddie’s sitting on the side of the bed, close enough to be in Richie’s line of vision. Small scratches litter his cheek and he’s sitting like his ribs are hurting him, but there’s a soft smile on his face and it makes Richie’s whole body sag with relief.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Richie says, in the worst British accent he can manage.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie says, but he laughs.

The rest of the Losers crowd around Richie’s bed, just far enough away that Richie doesn’t feel suffocated, but close enough that Richie can identify who’s who—even if they’re still pretty blurry.

“Stan? Bill?” Richie asks.

“Right here, Rich,” Bill says, placing a gentle hand on Richie’s good shoulder while he and Stan lean in so Richie can see them better. An angry network of cuts and scrapes decorates the side of Bill’s face and there’s some spectacular bruising around his right eye, but that seems to be the worst of it.

“We’re ok,” Stan assures him, voice sounding hoarse, no doubt from the nasty ring of bruises around his throat. Richie can’t see any blood in his hair, but he can imagine that his scalp is still tender.

Richie grins at them, ignoring the strain it puts on his split lip. “Good,” he says. “Good.” Bill keeps his hand on Richie’s shoulder while Stan reaches for Richie’s hand, entwining their fingers, and Richie can _feel_ the love radiating off of them.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks.

“A bit like your mom ran me down with her car,” Richie says. “After a lovers’ tiff. Of course.”

“Of course,” Eddie says.

Damn, Richie must look pretty pathetic because Eddie doesn’t even look like he wants to smack him for the joke. In fact, no one even sighs with exasperation. They all kind of look like they’re smiling, and it’s freaking Richie out a little bit.

“So what’s the damage?” he asks. Maybe he’s actually dying and they’re all letting his shitty jokes slide as a way of letting him go peacefully.

“Your nose is broken, for starters,” Eddie says. “Bruised ribs, a minor concussion, and your shoulder…” Eddie pauses, that little relieved smile slipping off his face, replaced with something sadder, almost haunted. “It needed a bunch of stitches and it’s probably gonna hurt like hell once those painkillers start wearing off because we could definitely see bone.”

Richie tugs at the collar of his gown to get a peek, but the gash is hidden away beneath a layer of bandages.

“It’s pretty cool-looking,” Mike assures him. “We got to see it when they were changing your bandages earlier.”

“The scar’s gonna be awesome,” Bev adds.

“Oh good,” Richie says. “Maybe it’ll help with the ladies.” Stan sighs loudly, Ben groans, and Richie feels like something’s clicked back into place. Except for Eddie, who doesn’t even react to the joke and has settled for staring blankly at Richie’s collarbone.

“Maybe the lads too,” Richie says, nudging Eddie with his thigh and wiggling his eyebrows. “What dy’a think, Eds? Does it make me looked rugged?”

Eddie’s nose scrunches up the way it does when he’s concentrating or grossed out or really, really mad. And oh boy he actually does look really, really mad.

“Do you even realize how _serious_ this was?” He asks and Richie’s sure that if he weren’t lying in a hospital bed, Eddie would be smacking him. “There was blood _everywhere_ , Richie. You wouldn’t wake up and the cut was so close to your throat and we don’t know _shit_ about anatomy, he could’ve nicked something important for all we fucking knew and you could’ve been _bleeding the fuck out_.” Eddie chokes on that last bit, his hands curling into tight fits against the sheets of Richie’s bed.

“Eds—”

“The scar won’t be cool, or awesome, or make you look rugged,” Eddie spits out, ignoring him. “It’s just gonna be there. Forever. To remind us. To remind _me_ of that time you did something so incredibly stupid for me that I almost think I should fucking hate you for it.”

Richie wants to do so many things—touch him, hold him, reassure him—but he freezes instead because Eddie’s crying now and he doesn’t know what to do.

“M-M-Maybe we sh-sh-should go wait outside,” Bill suggests. The rest of the Losers follow him out into the hallway, Bev squeezing Richie’s good shoulder on her way.

Eddie hunches in on himself, looking small and trembling slightly and it makes Richie’s heart ache horribly.

“Ah say, stop them tears,” Richie says, slipping into a bad Southern drawl. “Doan worry ‘bout ‘lil ol’ me."

“Shut up, Richie. Just shut up. I’m not in the mood for the Southern Guy right now.”

Richie’s jaw clicks closed. The silence settles heavily over the room, punctuated only by Eddie’s occasional sniffles and Richie hates that sound almost as much as he hates being the reason for those tears. It’s unbearable, but he’s terrified to say anything because he knows as soon as he opens his mouth again, it’ll be a Voice or an equally stupid joke.

“Hey Eds,” Richie finally manages, after a few long minutes. It’s his own voice, and even though it sounds steady, his entire body seems to shake under the force of his rapidly beating heart. “Come a little closer.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, sniffing.

“I can’t see shit.”

Eddie huffs but leans in, close enough for Richie to see his wet eyes and the hard-pressed line of his lips, looking like he’s trying to keep back the force of a hurricane. And it was _Richie_ who put that look there.

Eddie’s looking at him like the whole goddamn sky will collapse without him, and Richie knows their friendship runs deep, in a way that’s always been different from the other Losers, but suddenly the word _friendship_ doesn’t quite seem to cut it. Not with that look in Eddie’s eyes. He thinks back to the fear he’d felt when facing off with Bowers, to that overwhelming, almost violent need to _protect protect protect_ , and feels lightning throughout his entire body as Eddie reaches out to gently touch the cut on his cheek. Something’s shifting between them, right there in that hospital room, and Richie can feel it, can see it in Eddie’s red-rimmed eyes.

After everything that happened, closing those last few inches to press his lips against Eddie’s is still somehow the scariest thing Richie’s ever done. Especially because Eddie immediately freezes and doesn’t make any attempt to kiss back.

Richie pulls back quickly, unable to believe he read the situation so wrong. He tries to throw a smile on, searching for some kind of joke he can make to play this off. A little waving of his hands and some stupid, over-the-top pick-up line maybe. Anything.

But there goes his mouth, betraying him this time with the unfiltered honesty that’s always a million times worse than his shitty jokes. “Aw shit, Eds, I’m sorry. I thought you—”

Eddie shuts him up by leaning in and kissing the breath right out of him. Small hands come up to tenderly cradle his face, turning him slightly so that their lips slide together at just the right angle, and Richie’s entire body _burns_. He almost forgets to respond—too lost in the mantra of _oh my god oh my god this is happening Eddie’s kissing me holy shit oh my god_ —but then he presses closer, one hand cupping the back of Eddie’s head, and then Eddie’s fingers are in his hair and it feels so _good_ Richie never wants it to stop.

But then Richie’s split lip breaks open and Eddie pulls back at the taste of blood, scrunching up his nose as he wipes the taste from his mouth.

“ _Cute_ ,” Richie says, kissing the tip of his nose.

Eddie swats him away. “You’re _bleeding_ ,” he hisses, wiping at his nose and scowling.

Richie grins brighter, even as it irritates his lip, because Eddie must be feeling better. It’s tempting to kiss him again, but he settles for taking Eddie’s hand and squeezing. Eddie turns his palm so they can lace fingers and lets out a little sigh, and despite the cuts and bruises, Richie wants to live in this moment forever.

“Thank you,” Eddie says, softly. “It was stupid, what you did. But also brave. And I just…thank you.”

“Anything for you, Eds,” Richie says.

“Not this,” Eddie argues. “Not again. Promise me.”

“Eds—”

“ _Promise me_. It was _bad_ , Richie. There was so much blood and you looked like you were fucking dead and I was so fucking scared. Don’t put me through that again.”

“Ok,” Richie says. “I promise.” It’s a lie, and both he and Eddie know it, but it’s enough for now.

Eddie nudges his hip and Richie shuffles over, making space for him. Eddie curls against his side, carefully resting his head on Richie’s good shoulder.

They lie like that for a little while before Eddie mutters. “I don’t hate you, you know.”

Richie snorts. “I would hope not after that big ol’ smooch you gave me. Unless you like to go around kissing people you hate.”

“Richie.”

“What? Who am I to kink shame? Whatever floats your boat. Feeds your needs. Tickles your pickle.”

Eddie shuts him up with another kiss but Richie can feel him smiling. He’d fight Bowers again ten times over to feel the press of Eddie’s smile against his.

He’d really do just about anything.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so unbelievably happy IT has a fandom now--what a perfect kick in the ass for my poor, rusty writing brain! Welp, hope you all enjoyed! Expect more of me putting Richie through the ringer in the future...(it's just too damn fun).


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